But Who's Keeping Count?
by ijeni
Summary: By all accounts, Leonard McCoy is a secure man with not a single jealous bone in his body. [Set between the end of Into Darkness and the beginning of the five year mission]


By all accounts, Lieutenant Commander Leonard Horatio McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the USS Enterprise, has had a long, and incredibly shitty day.

Where shall we start? How about the part he accidentally activated a photon torpedo by getting his steady surgeon hand stuck in it? How about the part where he had to activate the other 71 photon torpedoes, this time without getting any appendage stuck within?

How about the part where he spent ten minutes free falling in space and realising his greatest fear is not really dying in something that is flying, it has always been falling in something that was–until it started falling–flying at very great heights?

How about the part where he stared at the still body of his Captain and best friend, and his world lurched and he started free falling again even as the Enterprise soared steadily below him?

He's aghast to find himself slumped over his desk. The MedBay is filled to the brim with the wounded and the casualties from the free fall of the Enterprise, as well as one dead Captain waiting to be pronounced. Taking a second for himself is a luxury this CMO can ill afford.

He barely hears the soft trill. His distracted mind thinks it's the call of his communicator. He must have been summoned to other parts of the ship to attend to more injured crew members. His eyes flicker down: the ball of fur beside his hand seems to quiver. Goddamn freaks of nature these Tribble are: Leonard swears he can feel its breath on his skin even though the critter ain't got a freaking nose, or head, for that matters. The damn thing isn't even supposed to be alive; it's been dead since he injected it with Khan's blood, it's as dead as–

Leonard's heart has stopped falling; it's now leapt into his airways, but he has forgotten how to breathe anyway.

He punches the communicator.

* * *

By all accounts, this isn't even the most complicated medical treatment he has subjected Jim to. The blood transfusion was simple; Chapel could find Jim's artery in her sleep, and the computer took care of everything else. The cryogenesis was slightly more cumbersome; it was an ancient technology from more barbaric times, and it would be an understatement to say that Leonard had watched Jim's face disappear underneath the ice crystals dotting the cryo tube view with great trepidation. He wasn't in there for long, thankfully. That son of a bitch's blood worked its magic rapidly enough, and Jim was defrosted and put into a medically induced coma within a day.

The healer's job is done; it is now time for healing.

This is the part of his job that he absolutely abhors. Not the healing; the _waiting_.

Jim's medical file is substantially of a much larger size than the average Starfleet officer. Leonard flips through it on his PADD disinterestedly. Most of the stuff here was of his own entry. Up in here, in his mostly-trusty grey 3 lb bundle of neurons, is a more complete James Tiberius Kirk's medical history than what can be found in any medical register in the known universe.

He looks up from the PADD and back to Jim's very serene face. It still bothers him. Jim's never been a peaceful sleeper in all this time he's known him, and they were roommates for three years. He fidgets and kicks and moans in his sleep; ghosts of smiles and grimaces would flicker across his face. But not like this, this blank and empty face, bloated from the transfusions and drips. Never like this. This, decides Leonard vehemently, it feels like looking at a death mask.

The room is so quiet safe for the gentle humming and periodic beeping of the apparatuses and machines around Jim. When he speaks to Jim, the responding silence is too deafening. It drains him to keep straining his ear a comeback, a reply, a weak cackle. He puts the PADD on the side table, and cradles his chin in his clasped hands.

The door slides open softly. Leonard turns around warily.

"Doctor," says Spock.

It's not in the arched left eyebrow; it's in the slight furrow to the right one, it's in the subtle uptilt to his voice, and in the way his arms drop to his sides from their initial position behind his back. Looks like someone expected to have some time alone with Jim.

"Commander."

Spock looks at display, specifically, at the corner where the time nestles.

"I was under the impression, Doctor," says Spock, "that your shift ended two hours and seventeen minutes ago."

"A correct impression, Mr Spock," replies Leonard. A simple medical treatment like Jim's doesn't warrant a senior medical officer spending precious shift time on him beyond the daily rounds and the two-hourlies checks–which he had already personally taken over from the nurses. In any case, Leonard's social life outside work has always consisted of reviewing or drafting medical articles and taking care of Jim (a full time job in every sense of the word). He's managed to do just that right here in Jim's ward the past few days.

Spock seems to consider this. "I merely wished to check upon the Captain's well-being myself. I see from your report today that his vitals, sans the brain activity, have returned to normal." Spock turns towards the door. "I am now satisfied that the Captain does indeed look to be no worse than he was yesterday."

Everything about this damn hobgoblin has always irritated Leonard, but his words now brush him especially the wrong way.

"Now, you hold on a minute, Spock," starts Leonard. "You can just tell me if you want a moment with Jim, and I'd have gladly let you have it. Expressing concern about your _friend_ is nothing to be embarrassed about!"

That left eyebrow jumped higher. "Your opinion is, as usual, noted, Doctor. I did not mean to see the Captain for an extended time, as I am due for a curriculum meeting at the Academy in thirty nine minutes."

The door slides open. Spock steps outside with a curt nod and an even more curt " _Doctor_ ".

Leonard sighs and takes the seat he doesn't remember rising from.

"Oh shut up," he says, pre-empting the little, but incredibly loud, voice of conscience within him. Yes, he is grateful to the Vulcan for saving Jim's life–my God he was barely holding himself back from hugging and sobbing thank you's into Spock's shoulders when the latter deposited Khan on the floor of his Medbay–but isn't he allowed to be annoyed for having to be grateful to _him_? This green-blooded, cold-hearted elf once marooned Jim to a barren ice husk of a planet to his very probably death, and a few hours later beat Jim to an inch of his life. He consistently shows his disregard, distance, and distaste for anything human (no offence to Uhura, of course, but what creature in this goddamn universe could show disregard distance or distaste for Nyota Uhura?). He can't even bring himself to admit caring about Jim to Leonard's face just now. But no, he's all kumbaya with Jim, and even got to share his last moments with him?

Spock may be a most capable and admirable First Officer. He may even be Jim's friend now, but as far as Leonard's concerned, Jim's got plenty of friends who ain't his.

* * *

By all accounts, Jim was right when he insisted that he was fit to be discharged the morning after he came to. His stats, sans his muscle mass, were even healthier than those from his previous physicals. Barbaric it may be, but this ancient technology still can amaze them after all. Alas, he was in Leonard's domain, and Leonard had every authority to order his captain to remain an extra day in bed for observation.

Good thing he did too, because Jim threw himself into work the moment Leonard's stylus flicked off his PADD to certify his fitness. He's only since seen Jim as he dashed from one end of Star Fleet's compound to the other, meeting this and that Admiral, attending this and that order of business, signing this and that form, huddling together with Spock as they briskly walked from one meeting to another.

"Let's make this quick, Bones," says Jim as Leonard steps into the examination room. He's undone the top buttons of his uniform, exposing the sharp lines of his neck and collar bones. "As you can see," he continues, pointing at the display behind Leonard, "I'm still very much alive. I've even gained 5 lbs since I was last here. Vitals are still looking good, and you'll find in the records that I've been chugging down all the disgusting pills you've prescribed for me."

"Shut up. Tongue out," barks Leonard. "And stay still."

He shoves the tongue depress or into Jim's mouth rougher than necessary, and those piercing blues glare daggers at him. That's Leonard's cue to snap his fingers and commands those eyes to look up as he shines a light at them; one more snap to make them follow his finger. The needle is in Jim's skin with only the briefest warning; Leonard watches thick dark blood rush into the syringe instead of meeting Jim's eyes.

"Jeez, I've missed you too, Bones," grumbles Jim as Leonard taps at his knee sharply.

"Really?" says Leonard as he knocks Jim's other knee, "have you now?"

Those piercing blues drill into him, and Leonard's determined to meet them head-on. Jim blinks first.

"Oh c'mon," groans Jim. "Bones, you're not–"

"You're a busy man, Captain Sir," says Leonard evenly. With practiced ease he slams a hypo into Jim's neck, earning a yelp and a curse from the younger man. "Just an immunity boost to help you with the many responsibilities you have to attend."

Jim lifts up a hand to rub at the sore spot on his neck. Leonard swats it away.

"You're free to go, Captain. I have you down for another check-up a week from now. Let me know if you feel even the slightest bit out of sorts or murderous. Drink your water and take the pills. Don't let me see any junk food in your meal logs." Bones grimaces a smile. "Go on, get outta here. Go seize the day."

Leonard hunches over his PADD and from the corner of his eyes he sees Jim step down from the Bio-bed.

"One question, Doctor McCoy," says Jim. "Am I restricted from consuming alcohol for the time being?"

Leonard barks a laughter. "When has that ever stopped you?"

"2000 hours tomorrow," continues Jim, "my place. Bring that Saurian brandy you've been hiding in your top cabinet."

Leonard turns around to catch those piercing blues wink at him before the door slides close. He runs a hand down his face and curses. He's supposed to be the mature adult in this relationship, goddammit.

For some reason, Spock comes to his mind's eye then, and Leonard shudders in repulsion at the idea that _he_ is now the dramatic needy one in Jim's stable of friends.

He glances at the locked top cabinet. There is a serious danger of him polishing that bottle off before meeting Jim tomorrow night.

* * *

By all accounts, Leonard has never been a believer in Terran superstitions and sentimentals, but the bloodied and broken young man he vomited on at the day his marriage officially ended makes him think twice about the concept of soulmates. He and Jim share what to him is an unprecedented level of trust, confidence, and openness. Never will he understand how he can ever let his guards down for one person, or how he can feel so free and right about sharing vulnerabilities with him. Indeed it is only vain Southern masculine pride that stops him from admitting that James Tiberius Kirk _completes_ him.

And yet, despite the warmth of the Saurian brandy in his belly, the warmth of classical music permeating the room, and the warmth of Jim's very much alive body lounging beside him, the proverbial cat, it seems, still has Leonard's tongue.

"Isik for your thoughts."

Leonard shakes his head and glances at Jim. "What?"

"Isik. For whatever's going on in that thick skull of yours."

Jim's hand skilfully dodges Leonard's to gently nudge at the side of his temple.

Leonard shrugs him away. "What the hell is an Izzik?"

Jim purses his lips in thoughtfulness. "Dunno, I guess it's a penny in Vulcan parlance? Spock uses it often."

Leonard gulps his glass down at the mention of that hobgoblin and groans at the delicious burn in his throat. Jim's right eye narrows so quickly it seems to twitch.

"Bones," starts Jim, "You're my doctor and my friend."

"That I am," sighs Leonard, because both roles come with a huge responsibility like no other.

"I need you to talk to me," says Jim, "c'mon. What's going on?"

Leonard draws a long breath, and an even longer sigh. "Well, Jim," he says, "you died."

"I _barely_ died, don't be so dramatic," smirks Jim. When Leonard doesn't respond with more than just a weak grimace at his appropriation of his words, Jim nudges him at the shoulder. "Even in your strictest medical opinion I am 100% alive, right? So, tell me, Bones. What's bothering you?"

Jim's smiling face reminds him of the serene death mask he watched over for two weeks, and suddenly the Saurian brandy he just drank starts to disagree with him. He can't tell Jim he's discovered for himself another irrational fear: he's a medical doctor in service of Starfleet, damn it, he sees death every fucking day, and he understands too fucking well what their risks of dying are in the blackness of danger and disease that is space.

But my God, Jim, thinks Leonard bitterly, the idea of losing you for good is like looking straight into the eye of a black hole. How in God's good graces will I ever return from that if it happens?

Damn Southern masculine pride won't let him say all this aloud, so Leonard only returns Jim's nudge with a rougher shove and says: "What's bothering _me_? What's bothering _you_! You _died_ , man, and I know you've said all the correct things you're supposed to say to the psychiatrist to be cleared for duty–"

"So much for doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I don't know if you're aware, Jim, but I'm a Senior Medical Officer at Starfleet and your personal physician on record with full authority and access to your medical records."

"Show-off."

Leonard growls. "You're trying to change the subject. Stop that."

"Hello, Mr Pot!" exclaims Jim. "Notice anyone has been trying to change the subject lately?"

"Dick," spits Leonard.

"Ass," replies Jim good-naturedly. He picks up the half-empty of bottle on the coffee table and swirls the dark gold liquid inside before filling up his and Leonard's glass to the brim. Inside his glass, the brandy looks like molten amber.

Leonard recognises the music playing now–a classical music by a legendary band, one of humanity's first robot musicians, although for the life of him he can't remember the title. It'd certainly be whatever catchy phrase repeated during the chorus. Jim's fingers resting at the cushion behind him tap in time with the rhythm.

"Fine," says Jim at the end of the first chorus of the song, "I'll start. I was afraid. I was scared to death, Bones." A small sad smile tugs at Jim's brandy-stained lips. "I asked Spock for help, at that moment, at that time, I wanted to be able to banish all emotions and fears just like him."

Leonard tries to imagine this scene: the pointy-eared bastard looking coldly at a dying Jim Kirk from the other side of the radiation shield as his captain begged him with shorter and more painful breaths for a last repose.

"And whattaya know, Bones," continues Jim, "our Vulcan couldn't help me. He was crying, Bones, he was _sobbing_."

Leonard blinks. Spock? Crying over Jim? The scene in his mind disintegrates, and again all he sees is Jim's death mask, suspended among the pale stillness of the ward.

"I thought of my dad, the captain for twelve minutes who saved four hundred lives, and who went down with his ship, otherwise dying alone. I thought of Chris, Starfleet's most distinguished, most heroic captain, dying helpless in Spock's arms. And my fear was–"

Jim crosses his legs under him and looks at his lap.

"–have I lived good enough to die?"

Leonard glances at him. "Jim..."

"I wasn't scared of dying alone," says Jim brusquely, "I've always thought I'd die alone. Maybe it's what I deserve. But Spock's tears–I'll be damned, I must have done pretty alright to have deserved that."

"Pretty alright?" hoots Leonard. He wants to say _kid, you're so damn fucking stellar, death doesn't deserve you_ , but he settles for: "You've done alright. Well, maybe even a little bit more than alright. I'm feeling generous tonight."

Jim snorts his appreciation. His foot is now wiggling to the beat of the song, which seems to never be fucking ending.

"I wish I were there," says Leonard flatly. "Not that I want to see you die, God, no. But Jim, the thought of you dying alone and scared–"

"Spock–"

"Spock!" cries Leonard so excitedly some brandy spills onto Jim's lap.

Jim laughs and waves off Bones's string of apologies and attempt to scrub his pants.

"Is this what it's about, then?" grins Jim.

Horror dawns upon Leonard, and he stops trying to rub Jim's pants and now scrambles to silent those lips.

"Don't you dare–"

"Oh, Bones," says Jim as his face becomes as obnoxiously pleased as his tone, "I have plenty of love to go around."

Leonard's ears are getting hotter. He wants to sock Jim right at his shit-eating grin.

Get Lucky, that has to be the song title. It's all they sing about until the end of the song, and now it's gonna be stuck in Leonard's head all night long. He downs his drink in one again. Jim has shit taste in classical music.

"Bones," says Jim, softly this time. "I was glad you were the first person I saw when I woke up."

The warmth from his ears spread to his chest, and Leonard knows very well that it's not the brandy.

"You say that because I'm your doctor."

Jim laughs. "Don't ever change, Bones."

"No promises, Jimmy-boy," says Leonard with a roll of his eyes, "nothing changes a man like an encounter with you, and in my case, it's a fucking constant exposure."

"Lucky you, then."

"Fair warning, I'm really tempted to dump the rest of my glass at your face."

Jim licks his lips. "Golden showers are my favourite."

As Leonard tries to kick at a laughing Jim, he recognises the song now playing to be a piece by one of humanity's 21st century prophet Kanye West. _Now that don't kill me, can only make me stronger_ indeed, muses Leonard as he watches Jim flip over the back of the couch to dodge his swipe.

* * *

By all accounts, Spock is a being seemingly created to press all of Leonard's buttons and then some. How in the world will he survive five years sharing not just the same confined space of the Enterprise with this hobgoblin, but also _Jim_?

Leonard steals a morose glance at said pointy-eared menace at Jim's other side. Look at him imbibing his beverage with such damn poise. It's so unfair that Leonard is so much more bothered about him than he will ever be about Leonard.

Well, look at that, Leonard's been so caught up about the freaking Vulcan he's late to raise his own glass as Jim proposes the main toast of the night.

"To five years of boldly going!"

The senior officers of the new USS Enterprise echo the sentiments with much boldness to do the toast justice–all but Spock, who merely raises his damn eyebrow like he is always inclined to. Is eyebrow waggling part of the Vulcan language? Only after Leonard ascertain this fact will he stop being irritated to high hell by this gesture, because Momma McCoy did not raise a culturally insensitive son, that's for sure.

"Aye, the construction is going on magnificently, Jim," says Scotty with as much pride as when Leonard speaks of how Joanna is collecting top grades in school. "Another month or so and we can schedule an informal inspection–I know ye can't wait to lay your eyes on that beaut."

Leonard is close enough to Jim to feel him shudder as he is wont to do when thinking of his ship lately. Annoyingly, Spock must have too, because he catches Jim's eye and cocks that damn eyebrow knowingly. Jim replies with a lopsided grin of a much obliged child with a hand in the cookie jar.

He rolls his eyes at this sight and decides to tune in to Chapel's teasing of Chekhov about the vodka he's nursing.

"The legal drinking age in Russia, Nurse Chapel, is sixteen!"

"Ensign, you know that we only have your word that you're sixteen."

"I'm nineteen!"

"Is that nineteen in Russian age, or Standard age?"

Drinks and laughters only flow more freely as the night deepens. Some of the younger crew have started dancing to Jim's playlist; Sulu's dragged his laughing fiancé to join him in what Scotty describes as bastardised disco moves. Leonard would have joined them (and inevitably awed all those present, minus the unfeeling hobgoblin, with his natural dancing talents), but he notices that Jim has been laughing a lot at Spock's and Uhura's directions. The dance floor doesn't look so enticing now.

In any case, the future crew of the newly revamped USS Enterprise has displayed incredible generousity in answering the BYOB policy for the night.

"Now _this_ is proper Scotch, Scotty, not the piss you made behind the turbines," says Leonard as he pours himself a second helping of the stuff.

"Psh," bristles Scotty, "what do ye know about proper Scotch, McCoy!"

"Scotch was invented by a little old lady just outside of Leningrad," chirps a very red Chekhov helpfully before Leonard can shoot out a comeback.

"Gentlemen, please," drawls Jim, gesturing generously in their direction. "Bones, you're no authority in Scotch, and Scotty, that drink was criminally atrocious."

Leonard leans into Jim to say his mind, but he only catches Spock muttering with a suggestion of–by golly, is that humour? "Very judicious, Jim."

(Jim had early on ordered Spock to call him by his first name for the purposes of the dinner. Spock had demurred with a meek ' _Affirmative... Jim_ ' that made Jim's face crack into a wide grin, and which in turn made Leonard snatch the bottle of sherry a passing yeoman just opened.)

"I'm surprised, Spock. I thought Vulcans don't drink."

"We may not have the same effects towards alcoholic beverage as humans do, Captain, but our taste buds are highly similar."

"It was a dare, if you're wondering, Jim," chimes Uhura's sweet voice from Spock's side.

"Dare?" breathes Jim in the tone he uses when he sees a new challenge he wants in.

There is a flash of green before Spock ducks away for some fresh air, leaving Uhura grinning mysteriously. Leonard decides he will help himself to a third serving of Scotch.

While humans may not have the same base temperature as Vulcans, Leonard can't deny that it is getting warmer in Jim's living room. Jim himself must feel the same way; he's shrugged off his jacket, and then progressively unbuttoned his Henley shirt throughout the night until Leonard realises that the moss coloured T-shirt he has underneath is _his_ , the same damn shirt he has been looking for for half a year now.

 _God damn it Jim_ , he starts to open his mouth to say.

But then Spock returns to his seat beside Jim, and Leonard is filled with only a sense of righteous smugness. Yeah, you may be Jim's new best friend, you damn hobgoblin, but is Jim casually wearing _your_ clothes as _his_ own? Leonard's nostrils flare. Vulcans have enhanced senses, so can you smell my scent on Jim now, Spock?

"Bones."

Those piercing blues bring him back to this warm reality. They clash with the colour of _his_ shirt.

"Come help me fill the pitchers."

Jim's kitchen is a mess of packaging and unused ingredients. A chunk of cut lemon sits bleeding in its own juice at the counter. Jim tosses it up into the air, and sprinkles of sour juice drizzle on them.

"You're not a quiet drunk," points out Jim. Leonard shrugs. That's a relative statement, but no one is as a sombre, quiet (and dangerous) drunk as Jim.

"I'm not drunk."

"I notice you've been staring at Spock a lot tonight," continues Jim, flipping the lemon in his hand, "but amazingly you haven't said anything to him. I thought you wouldn't miss any chance to get in the last word with him."

"Isn't that a good thing? I thought you don't like it when we bicker," shoots Leonard.

"I've never said that!" says Jim quickly. "I've only said that you could come to like Spock–"

"I believe my answer to that was ' _in a pig's eye I will_ '."

The piercing blues twinkle with fond reminiscence for a moment before concern and curiosity cloud over them again. The lemon is now firmly placed on the counter. It squelches in defeat as the knife slices through it.

"Bones," says Jim, "in four months' time we will be spending five years in space together."

"You don't say. I was at the briefing too, Captain Sir."

The disembodied pieces of the lemon are scattered across the empty pitchers. Leonard heaps ice cubes over them, and Jim seals their tombs with the torrent of relatively freshly brewed tea. "You know that I'll be relying a lot on you, _Lieutenant Commander_."

"Jim," says Leonard as he gingerly crushes mint leaves over the pitchers, "what the hell can you do without me?"

Their eyes meet over the brims of the pitchers. Jim chuckles.

"What I'm trying to say is," continues Jim after the laughter recedes, "I can't force you to like Spock, Bones. But he's my First Officer, and he's my friend–"

"If you're worried about whether I can act _professional_ around the hobgoblin, Jim, I must say that I'm offended–" says Leonard.

"No, not that. Look, Bones, _what I'm trying to say_ is... I can't have you..." Jim mulls over his next word. "... compromised."

Leonard cocks his head. "What?"

"Bones, must I spell it out loud for you?" groans Jim. "I–"

"Keptin," says an eager voice. "Hikaru says you may be needing some help with ze drinks."

Chekhov doesn't wait for Jim before he cradles three pitchers in his arms and sways his way back to the table. Jim quickly chases after him, gesturing at Leonard to pick up the remaining pitcher as he leaves.

* * *

By all accounts, their first serious incident in this five year commission is a success. For one thing, the Enterprise crew had stumbled into and subsequently thwarted the machinations of an apocalyptic Klingon sect in an agricultural colony bordering the Neutral Zone. For another thing, they have managed to come out of it unscathed, with no dead, and only one seriously wounded.

That said, Leonard's pride is still dented when he wakes up to find himself tucked into one of his own Bio-beds, M'Benga and Chapel fussing about him almost gleefully. He manages to snatch a handheld scanner from a passing medical trainee's waist pouch and diagnoses his own injury as a flesh wound which does not warrant this extended of a stay in bed, but M'Benga pulls rank ("Acting CMO of the USS Enterprise") and overrules him, while Christine threatens to cuff him to bed.

"He'd like that," says Jim as he peeks into the privacy curtains.

"Captain," greets M'Benga at the same time Leonard greets Jim in his own colourful way.

"Well, he's spirited," notes Jim.

"Isn't he always?" says Chapel.

"We'll give you two a moment," smiles M'Benga. "Christine, we should get started on that inventory, come on."

Leonard struggles to hide his wince as he scoots up higher on his bed, but he slaps off Jim's attempts to prop him up. "Computer," he says exasperatedly, "raise bed incline by seven point five degrees." He relishes the obedient confirmation of his order, and then the dutiful whirring of the bed into his desired adjustment. "At least someone here still listens to me," he mutters.

He turns to Jim. "How are things?"

"Blissfully busy," says Jim. "We're at the fastest warp she can handle for now, heading to the nearest base to take stock of our damages from that last battle, and also to resupply.I just finished an hour long holo-conference with Admiral Archer. Starfleet wants an exhaustive report over what happened."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Nothing your very capable medical team can't handle, Doctor McCoy," says Jim. "Your order is to keep your ass in that bed until you're at a hundred percent."

Leonard glowers at him, but he's no match for those piercing blues now. He sighs and sinks back into the thermal blanket.

"How's Spock."

"Blissfully busy," says Jim again, "just the way he likes it. All thanks to you."

Leonard shrugs.

"But don't you do _that_ again, Bones."

There's a trace of steel to Jim's voice that makes Leonard look back up at him uncertainly. A muscle twitches at Jim's jaw.

Something combative stirs in Leonard.

"I can't let my dear Captain be without the best First Officer of the fleet, can I?"

The muscle is now dancing up Jim's chiseled jawline and towards his temple. "You're _human_ , Bones, if anyone stood the highest chance of surviving a Bat'leth blow it would have been Spock–"

Leonard's laughter sounds harsh even to his own ears. "So you'd rather I let the damn Klingon try disembowel Spock?"

Jim bristles. " _Try_ , she wouldn't have succeeded."

"Dear God, Jim," cries Leonard, "listen to yourself–"

"Doctor!"

Chapel's head pokes between the screens, a finger placed against her lips, her eyes promising an icy hell. Now, _he's_ being shut up in his own MedBay. Great. Jim follows this turn of events clearly with Schadenfreude he couldn't hide, and Leonard tries his darndest to transfer Chapel's ocular threat to him.

"Look, Bones," whispers Jim, reaching for his shoulder.

"With respect, Captain _Sir_ ," hisses Leonard through gritted teeth as he dodges Jim's hand, "you don't get to tell me what to do with my life, or howsoever I choose to use it!"

"May I remind you that you are a Starfleet Officer?" barks Jim, "And you have a fucking 5-year commission as the Chief Medical Officer of this ship reporting directly to _me_?"

"The need of the many," retorts Leonard with barely concealed victorious spite, "outweighs the need of the few. Or the one."

Jim crosses his arms against his chest, takes a deep breath, and exhales out a string of curses.

"You don't know what our needs are."

"Oh, and as Captain, only you can tell what they are?"

The piercing blues burn fierce.

"Yes."

Leonard almost regrets picking a fight with Jim as he lies awake staring at the ceiling of the MedBay an hour or so later. Jim wasn't kidding when he said the ship was blissfully busy: Leonard can feel the buzz of activity even from the confines of his bed. The ship rumbles determinedly beneath him—he can imagine Scotty is kept busy in Engineering in order to keep her purring this smoothly after all she's gone through. He is bored out of his minds, and he's starting to regret his own strict MedBay rules. Maybe he can look into relaxing that no-alcohol rules in cases where the patient clearly is mentally and physically fit, and can make an informed decision about his own well-being. That is to say, his case will be the first and only exception to the rule. It's not as if he finds himself in this situation often–heck, this is his first time here! Considering he's spent six years in Starfleet–and six years by Jim's side–this isn't a bad streak of luck indeed.

It'd do Jim good to have their usual roles reversed for once anyway. This is how it feels every time I see you bleeding like a damn stuck pig in my MedBay, thinks Leonard smugly. A nice feeling it ain't, Jimmy-boy.

That said, he is worried about how Jim will handle this. In all the excitement of their five year mission, people forget that James Tiberius Kirk is only twenty fucking seven years old. That's _barely_ older than Chekhov! Leonard squints at the small crack between the privacy screens. If Jim doesn't come back soon, he'd be forced to strong-arm one of the junior doctors into discharging him. They _gotta_ talk this out.

Jesus. _Talk this out_? I sound like his freaking mother.

"My PADD," he's saying into the bed's comm a few minutes later, "Darlin', you know damn well where my PADD is, so please, can you take it to me so I can make good use of my time here as your captive—"

Leonard only becomes aware of a new presence near his bed when his PADD is pushed towards his nose.

"About damn–"

He looks up and does a double take.

"What are you doing here?"

"I sympathise with your need to continue managing your affairs while confined in bed, Doctor," says Spock.

Leonard takes the PADD and places it on his lap. He kicks himself up the bed to a more polite reclined-seated position. "So Vulcans sympathise now?" says Leonard.

That damn eyebrow again. "My action is only logical, Doctor," intones Spock, "for the probabilities of finding myself in your situation in the course of this five year mission is ninety nine point ninety seven percent. When that scenario materialises, it will be helpful to rely on humans' need to repay favours and ' _get even_ '."

"Well, Spock," says Leonard, "I'll consider this—" he lifts up the PADD in a salute "—as you repaying me back for saving your life down there, so we're even."

Spock only releases the arms from behind his back and turns to study his stats on display. Leonard catches his dark eyes linger at the red line across the torso of the Ken doll-like representation of his body.

"Now, Spock," smiles Leonard, "don't you be gettin' any wrong ideas and start thinking that I like you."

"Vulcans do not get wrong ideas, Doctor," says Spock, turning back to arch the other eyebrow at him. "We arrive at logically sound and factually correct conclusions based on our observations."

Leonard rolls his eyes. "Just be careful next time. I'm a doctor, not a pin cushion."

"A fact that I am cognizant of," says Spock with nary a missed beat. "Doctor, if I may point out another such fact the truth of which we are in mutual agreement over?"

Leonard sighs. He will regret this. "Shoot."

"As a senior medical officer in Starfleet, you are well acquainted with Vulcan physiology. My physique is more resilient than that of a human, and I heal at a greatly accelerated rate in comparison as well."

He already regrets this. "No need to lecture me, Spock."

"I will be brief, Doctor," continues Spock. "I merely wish to remind you of a logical conclusion a man of your intelligence is certainly aware of, which is that in scenarios such as the one we recently faced, it is only logical that you do not try to shield me with your body, and rather, leave me to fend for myself."

"Don't you get on my case about this too," grunts Leonard, "I'll show you and Jim where to stick your logic during your next physicals."

"Doctor," says Spock, "the Enterprise needs her Chief Medical Officer if her crew is to be delivered safely by the end of the five year mission–"

"I'll have you know, Commander Spock," cuts Leonard, "that Acting CMO Doctor Geoffrey M'Benga, as well as the rest of my medical team, are cream of the fucking crop, and more than capable to tackle any lousy disease this goddamn space can throw at this crew."

"It is correct that the present medical team aboard the Enterprise is ranked highly within Starfleet. But you did not let me finish, Doctor."

Leonard crosses his arms against his chest. "Am all ears."

"And while the Captain needs his Chief Medical Officer, _Jim_ needs you," concludes Spock.

Leonard's leg jerks under the thermal blanket. He's baking in here–he needs to call Chapel to get this shit off him.

"Jim has you," he mutters.

"That he does, Doctor," affirms Spock. "But my relationship with Jim does not confer the benefits that are exclusive only to your relationship with him. You, Doctor, are Jim's oldest friend in the fleet. You appeal to a side of Jim that I, by virtue of my heritage and biology, is unable to comprehend, that is, the human side of him."

Leonard feels the corner of his lips tugging despite himself. "Sometimes I honestly can't tell if you're insulting me or not."

The eyebrow shoots up again. "I believe that Jim is an excellent Starfleet captain precisely because of the unique combination of his experience, intelligence, and instinct. From my admittedly limited understanding of the human psychology, I was under the impression that you will be flattered by the implication that you provide the grounding of a fundamental part of Jim's character."

Despite how he's cooking under this blanket like a basted turkey during Thanksgiving, Leonard sinks deeper into its folds. Like hell he's going to tell Spock he's right.

"Your advice is well noted, Mr Spock," says Leonard as he rolls to his side in his bed. "If we ever find ourselves in a gladiator type scenario, rest assured that I'll let you do all the fighting. Now if you'll excuse me, I think my pain meds are kicking in."

Leonard fervently hopes that Spock does not notice the small list in the display that sets out the exact medications currently in his system, although after all these years he knows too damn well details like this don't just slip off Spock's notice. But to his credit, Spock only nods, mutters a not-too-curt ' _Doctor'_ , and quietly leaves.

Leonard kicks the blanket off him and sits up. Behind him, behind only several feet of glass and metal, is the vast inky cesspool of death and disease that is space. Five years of this, thinks Bones, by all accounts he must be a mad man to even accept this commission.

And yet.

The ship continues to hum and shudder; the Bio-bed creaks under his weight; the MedBay is a cacophony of beeps and whistles, and whispers and wails.

By all accounts, this is the most at peace he has ever been.


End file.
